Trekker of the Silver Sage

It was a great day for a hike in the Boise Foothills, and some of the fall colors were still hanging on, especially in the valley below. I took a picture of a Pin Oak, (Quercus palustris) which had been planted as an ornamental in front of some one's home, which was showing off its colors. The tree was a stout tree, about 40 feet tall, and many of the leaves were a robins breast-red color, blotted with a few yellows and light greens.

The foothills were in full winter dress, with only a few straggler cottonwoods in the creek bottoms, stubbornly hanging on to their yellow colors. The shade lines knifed deep into the canyons, with the December sun low on the winter horizon. The shady areas contrasted with the white snows and the green conifer trees on the far ridges. The dry bunch grasses dominated the hillsides, with scattered stands of bitterbrush and sage brush, and rabbit brush.

I hiked into what was the upper reaches of Freestone Creek, which reaches far into the foothills, knifing and gorging a snaky course to summit of the mountains. The hillsides were slick with mud in a few places and snow on the north slopes, which made for difficult footing.

The winter foothills grudgingly show colors, dominated by grays and browns. Granite-gray, atlantic-gray, tiger cat-gray, dust-gray, coyote-gray. Dirt-brown, soil-brown, wood-brown, dry-brown, sod-brown, dung-brown, adobe-brown. It may be dull looking but its full of life, if you know where to look, and it's excellent deer and elk wintering range. The bright colors will return in the spring, as dormant wildflowers and bunch grasses renew their growth.

Until then, I will wait patiently, through short arctic like winter days of Idaho, and keep my snow skis well tuned, and enjoy sluicing through deep powder-perfect snow!

The stalk, the flight

The frigid November winds tore out of the northwest, bent on sweeping across the foothills to assault the conifer trees on the ridge top. The squalls stung at bare skin, and I pulled the hood of my shell over my head and closed it, and only a small part of my face was exposed.

The bunch grass waved steadily in the relentless breeze, in defiance of the cold. A thin shell of snow covered the north slopes, out of reach of the radiant heat of the sun, leaving the rest of the slopes painted in browns and grays. Scattered bitterbrush seemed to shrug off the wind like it didn't exist, its stiff branches poking fun at the gusts.

The wind was troublesome on the ridge top and I decided to side hill to the bottom of the canyon, and the footing was slick with snow and mud, making me step carefully to avoid falling. The winds slacked off about half way down, and a timid breeze wafted through the unwavering willows along the dry stream bed.

I kept a eye out for soaring hawks, but there were none to be seen, as if they were holding out for better flying weather. Who could blame them, for staying grounded, perched comfortably in some tall cottonwood, rather than attempting to fly into November gales, and muffing some spectacular aerobatic maneuver.

I spotted two mule deer across a low ridge, some 300 yards away, and I quickly dropped lower into the gulch, before they could spot me. The deer would be unable to catch my scent, because I was downwind of them, and that would make my stalk easier. I quietly walked across a swale and started up next rise, knowing the deer were near the top of the next ridge. I watched my footing carefully to avoid making noise, and stayed away from any brush that could scrape across my clothing.

I climbed the first small rise and spotted two deer with their heads down, browsing on shrubs. I inadvertently stepped a bit side ways and my pants legs rubbed together and with that smidgen of an alarm the deer looked up, their eyes locking on mine, and they started to move to the top of the ridge. I brought up my barrel and triggered the shutter and started to take pictures.

The two-some merged with 5 more muleys, that were hidden in a thicket and formed up in a herd, and suddenly one of the deer whirled around and started a downhill retreat, followed by the other deer in a straight line. The band headed towards the bottom of a deep canyon, running, bounding and leaping over rocks and shrubs, in what seemed an effortless motion.

I am always amazed at mule deer and how fine tuned they are to survival in rough and steep country, with steel like legs and fine tuned senses of smell, hearing and sight. They are quite adept at fleeing from predators, even ones armed only with a 300 mm camera.